


Make You Better

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Stand Alone, War, cross-faction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29390925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Three million years into the war, Ratchet is running a field hospital behind the Autobot lines--the last place he'd expect a visit from Deadlock.  Stand-alone fic.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 57
Kudos: 170





	1. Not So Starry-Eyed

**Author's Note:**

> 2021 was supposed to be the year of me completing several of my ongoing fics, but here I am starting another one. I'm well aware this is the third Ratchlock fic I have, after "Glory Ride" and "This Corrosion." I'm hoping this is a "three cakes" scenario for everyone. 
> 
> "Make You Better" is a standalone fic in no way related to any of my other works, so anything that's "continuity" there might not be continuity here.
> 
> I'm also starting to wonder if my Dratchet playlist isn't creating itself in the titles of my fics (this one's by the Decemberists, "Make You Better")

Chapter One: Not So Starry-Eyed 

Ratchet felt it like an itch at first—an unwelome urge nagging for his attention. He pushed it away, determined to finish filling out the patient chart in front of him before he got distracted. But his instincts doubled down, illuminating amber warning lights in the corners of his vision. 

Something was wrong. Something here in this field hospital needed his attention _now_. 

Ratchet’s first impulse was to check on his patients. He tapped the controls on his console and patched into the feeds from the diagnostic drones. The ward was quiet. All of his patients were deep in rest cycle, aided by the medication administered by the tubes in their arms. Their vital signs were good. Their frames were quiet and still save for the rhythmic exhalations of air from their vents. 

Ratchet’s brow furrowed. Usually his instincts flared up like this to warn him that someone was in distress. However, two million years of war had taught him other reasons to be wary. 

His second impulse was to check the security cameras. When he did, Ratchet realized very quickly that a big section of the sensor and surveillance grid was down. 

Ratchet groaned and asked the computer for more information. He pushed out of his desk chair and paced his office while watching the screen. The majority of the cameras were working fine, and there was nothing wrong with the power. It was probably a localized error—preferrably a hardware problem, like a disconnected power coupling or something. Ratchet could fix that. 

If it was a software glitch, he’d waste half the night waiting for a technican. What a pain in the aft. Particularly after he’d chased all the staff out so that he could have some uninterrupted time to concentrate on his administrative duties. 

Ratchet realized, all of a sudden, that he was very alone here, save for the sleeping patients. Defenseless. A shiver ran up his spinal strut. 

He was being silly, of course, because the report on the screen indicated that there had been no interference whatsoever with the comms. There was no jamming, and no damage to the hard lines. If someone had been planning something nefarious, surely they would have assumed that Ratchet would call for help the second he realized there was a problem with the surveillance grid. 

Ratchet took a step towards the door and then hesitated. Perhaps he wasn’t making the smartest of decisions. 

He glanced at the screen again. The cameras were still working in the patient rooms. He’d know if someone tried to hurt his patients. Otherwise… If there was an intruder, then perhaps the smartest thing to do would be to hold still and wait for the other mech to take what he wanted and leave. 

He was in an Autobot field hospital well behind the front lines. He wasn’t sure if there were Empties here, but there might be black market resellers. Gangsters, profiteers. They’d be sophisticated enough to cut the security cameras, but maybe not enough to jam the comms. They’d want the fuel and medical supplies to fence on the black market. 

It wasn’t likely that it would be Decepticons. 

Yet Ratchet couldn’t relax. Thoughts of Bludgeon kept intruding into his mind. 

He told himself that things had changed a lot since he’d been snatched off the street leaving the Deltaran Medical Facility. They were at war now. Attacks were expected and defenses were created accordingly. He was well behind the front lines in a secure area. There were plenty of armed Autobots moving around outside. People were more vigilant these days. 

On the other hand, just because someone might be nefarious didn’t necessarily mean they were competent. Maybe they’d messed up and that’s why Ratchet’s instincts were telling him semething wasn’t right. If they’d tried to jam his communications and failed, then Ratchet might have to hold them off until help arrived. That would get tricky if they took the patients hostage. 

Ratchet moved to the doorway, reaching for his hip, but of course he wasn’t carrying any weapons in here. Of _course_. Why would a Medical Officer be armed while working in his own field hospital behind the lines, when he had his own security staff? Who, of course, weren’t here, because Ratchet in all his wisdom had grown tired of their banter and _sent them away_ so he could concentrate on getting his work done. 

His work was the last thing on his mind now. 

Well, he might not be a warrior, but he wasn’t helpless either. Ratchet kept a selection of medical tools on a rack on the left wall, and he moved towards that rack now, as quietly as he could. He tucked his sharpest laser scalpel into his chest compartment. He selected a needle gun and loaded it with a powerful inhibitor drug before hanging it on his right hip. He folded a stun baton into his left hand. He’d dealt with violent patients and even thieves before. Rodion, for example. 

Ratchet moved out into the corridor, heading towards the ward, trying not to contemplate the notion that there was another possible reason the comms were still working. Something worse than gangsters who lacked the technical skills or Decepticon flunkies who’d bungled their tasks. 

There were names—Sixshot, Black Shadow, Deathsaurus, Overlord—names of people who wouldn’t have to jam the comms because they’d be here and make their kills and be gone long before the first responders came on scene. 

_There’s nobody in this hospital worth Megatron’s time_ , Ratchet thought, trying to rationalize his worries away. 

Of course, it backfired. After all, there had been someone worth Bludgeon’s time. 

_Me_ . 

Ratchet raised his arm, about to open his comm link—it didn’t matter if he looked silly to the security patrol; the safety of his patients came first—when his audials registered a soft scuffing sound in an exam room behind him. 

Ratchet held his breath and raised the needle gun, hoping that there would be nothing to see. 

“Doc, I know you’re out there.” The voice echoed through the examination room. It was followed by a wafting odour. The scent of spilled fuel and ruptured lines. 

Ratchet ground his teeth together. 

His training told him to call the intruder’s bluff. Make the mech search for him. 

The problem was that Ratchet thought he recognized the voice. Inpulsively, he took a chance. He slid along the wall to the doorway, lowered his needle gun, and spun around to stand in the doorway, barrel pointed into the room. 

It wasn’t likely that Ratchet would see one of the top five worst Decepticons—not counting Megatron—lounging on his examination table, but here he was. 

Ratchet stormed into the exam room and waved the tip of the needle gun under Deadlock’s nose. “You know you could’ve gotten an electric baton straight to the brain stem.” A gross exaggeration. Deadlock could shoot the baton from Ratchet’s hand before he ever got close enough to use it. 

Deadlock grinned, flashing his fangs. “But I didn’t.” 

Ratchet holstered the gun and dropped his gaze. Deadlock’s detached left arm lay crosswise across his lap. A snarl of wires erupted from his shoulder socket. His frame was covered in dents and gashes. To Ratchet’s trained optics, the injury looked worse than it really was. It would absolutely be uncomfortable, not to mention restrictive, but it wasn’t going to be fatal. Deadlock’s self repair had already halted most of the bleeding, meaning none of the gashes were deep enough for Deadlock to leak to death. 

Ratchet frowned. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

Deadlock’s smile broadened. “Whatcha gonna do about it?” 

Ratchet ought to threaten to call security. The taunt died on his lips. “I trust that the clinic security staff are well?” he said, his voice ice. 

“How would I know ab…” 

Ratchet saw the instant Deadlock got it. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, _oh_. So? Are they?” 

“I didn’t hurt anyone.” 

Ratchet wanted to believe that. Couldn’t. Stared at Deadlock helplessly. 

“They’re chasing an attempted hack.” 

“A hack?” 

Deadlock looked very pleased with himself. “I didn’t hurt them. I just distracted them.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Ratchet said as understanding dawned on him. 

“I’d say we’ve got about an hour,” Deadlock said, “before they figure out that someone hacked the security grid and check in on you.” He glanced down at his arm. “Better get started.” 

Irritation flowed through Ratchet’s lines. “You have a Decepticon field hospital on the other side of the lines!” 

Deadlock flashed Ratchet that winning smile. “But I’d rather see you.” 

Ratchet thought about the stack of paperwork on his desk. About the bloody Decepticon onslaught last week that had caused most of those injuries. About the mechs that died on the operating table, and the mechs who died waiting their turn, and the mechs who died in the recovery rooms later on. About all the new names he had to add to the long, long list of the people he couldn’t save. 

Ratchet could only imagine how many of those names were the fault of the mechanism sitting on his examination table. 

One of the ones he _had been_ able to save. 

If Orion Pax had had any idea of who that skiv would become… 

Ratchet shoved these thoughts aside. There was no use in regretting the past. The problem was the present, with Deadlock lounging in his exam room like he had every right to be here. 

He had to ram some sense into the kid’s thick skull. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to be here right now?” 

Deadlock laughed. “If you’re slow and Security finds me here? Yeah, I’d like to see them try. One arm and one gun is probably more than enough.” 

Ratchet laid a hand on each of Deadlock’s shoulders and squeezed hard enough to be uncomfortable. “I meant, do you have any idea how dangerous it is for _me_.” 

Deadlock froze. “You,” he repeated, his features blank. 

“You know I’m supposed to report contact with the enemy to Prowl, don’t you?” 

The Decepticon’s easy grin returned. “But you won’t, will you?” He even went so far as to slide the index finger of his working hand underneath Ratchet’s chin. 

Ratchet released his shoulders and backed away, feeling uncharateristically flustered. “You don’t know…” 

“You never did in Rodion.” Deadlock winked. “How many patients of yours ought to have been arrested? You never reported us to Pax. Because you thought that people getting help was more important than following the Senate’s laws.” He leaned back and glanced at the arm on his lap. “So, isn’t putting my arm back on a bit more important than your opportunity to disturb Prowl’s evening?” 

“Things are different,” Ratchet said stiffly. 

“Don’t see how.” 

_In Rodion you never sent me corpses and the dying_ . Ratchet managed not to say it out loud. It might not even be true. Ratchet wasn’t sure exactly when Drift started killing for pay, but it had been before he’d changed his name. 

“We’re at war,” Ratchet managed. 

“Ratch. We’ve been at war a long time.” Deadlock flashed him a dreamy smile. “Since when does the war matter?” 

“I’ve just spent a week welding back together Autobots that _you_ shot apart, or _trying to_ , and right now when I look at you all I see is the faces of the ones I couldn’t fix.” 

Ratchet realized, too late, that he included Drift among them. 

“Do you understand,” Ratchet said tersely, “that every time I repair you, I wonder whose death warrant I’ve signed?” 

Deadlock looked stunned. There was no trace of his earlier teasing. 

The surprise seemed genuine, and Ratchet couldn’t bear it. “You didn’t even think,” Ratchet spat. “You didn’t even think for a second that when you were asking _me_ to fix you, you were asking if I could help you send some more of my friends and colleagues and patients back to me in gory energon-soaked _pieces_!” 

“We…” Deadlock bit his lip with a long fang. “I gotta help end the war _fast_. That’s why the fighting’s so bad right now. Because if the Decepticon advance gets bogged down, the Autobots will rally, and we’ll end up in another stalemate.” 

“Better than a Decepticon victory.” 

“Do you _really_ believe that?” Now Deadlock looked angry. He slammed his palm against the side of the table with a loud bang. “Do you not understand why I’m maybe not in a huge hurry to get back to the life I had before the war?” 

“Well, but you wouldn’t be back in the Dead End,” Ratchet spluttered. “You’d be…” 

Deadlock’s gaze darkened. “In prison?” he whispered. “I’d rather die.” 

“You’re the one who chose to throw in with Megatron,” Ratchet retorted. “Now you tell me. When you saw the sky on fire after Simanzi, were you happy? Is that really what you’d signed on to do?” 

“We have to end the war fast,” Deadlock repeated, enunciating slowly, as though speaking to an idiot. 

Ratchet filled in the silence that followed. Deadlock was willing to commit a few small atrocities now in the hopes of averting an apocalypse to come. There would be no changing his mind. 

“Fine,” Ratchet snapped. “But you see how me helping you out like this is essentially treason under the Autobot Code, and _more_ importantly, treason against my oath as a physician. I cannot enable you to do harm to the Autobots any longer.” 

Deadlock hung his head. “Okay,” he whispered. His gaze slid sideways, peering up at Ratchet with an innocent hopefulness. The expression looked wrong on Deadlock’s harsh features, and worse when the glow went out of Deadlock’s optics. He hung his head and looked at the floor. “Okay. This is the last time.” 

Ratchet immediately bit back the urge to protest. 

Because that was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he just been raging at Deadlock with _terrible_ and _fully justified_ reasons why he couldn’t keep repairing the Decepticon in secret? Wouldn’t his life be easier if he never had to deal with Deadlock right in front of him like this? 

Yet something in his chest felt wrenched out of alignment at the thought of never seeing Drift again. 

It threatened to choke his spark when he thought about Deadlock, critically injured, his spark contracting, his systems failing, _turning away_ from Ratchet because he thought he wasn’t welcome, _choosing_ to die rather than ask for help. 

Without thinking, Ratchet reached out his hand and cupped the kid’s chin. 

Deadlock glowered up at him. 

Oh. Right. Ratchet should have expected to get bitten for… 

Deadlock’s fierce expression collapsed. He leaned his cheek into Ratchet’s hand. 

Ratchet held him gently and firmly. “Unless it’s life or death,” he said. 

Deadlock dimmed his optics. 

Ratchet shook his hand, jostling Deadlock back to full alertness. The Decepticon curled his lip and growled. 

“You need to say it,” Ratchet insisted, refusing to be intimidated by Deadlock’s threat display. “ _Only if it’s life or death_.” 

“Primus, _fine_.” Deadlock rolled his optics, back to the swaggering insolence of his prior persona. “This is the last time, unless it’s life or death.” 

“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding,” Ratchet said sternly. “Little things like this? Take that to your own medics. Don’t come bother me unless you’re ready to knock on death’s door.” 

“And then I can come to you.” 

“Recovered your obnoxious grin, I see.” 

“Yeah, you love it.” Deadlock half-turned, lifting his legs up onto the examination slab and holding his amputated arm in position at his waist with his remaining hand. 

Then Deadlock clicked his tongue. 

Ratchet glanced up at the sound. 

Deadlock smiled and slowly let his thighs open, while staring at Ratchet meaningfully. 

Ratchet was used to this nonsense. It was just another thing Deadlock apparently thought was funny. 

And, to be honest, Ratchet welcomed it, because it took the situation back to a more familiar dynamic. He felt shaken for reasons he couldn’t name. 

He shouldn’t have had that discussion with Deadlock. There was a reason they didn’t talk about the war. Deadlock had never thought about what it would be like for Ratchet to have to fix his friends after Deadlock shot them apart. 

Ratchet had never thought about what it would be like for Deadlock to contemplate a return to the world before the war. 

They shouldn’t have thought about it. Because they couldn’t do anything about it. All thinking did was make them both realize how far apart they were from one another. 

How far apart they’d always been. 

No, it was much better for Deadlock to get his kicks by being obnoxious in one form or another, and Ratchet to snap at him and call him a fool. Much easier to fight about things that didn’t matter. Much more pleasant to fall into banter so well-rehearsed that it felt comfortable, natural. 

So as Ratchet reattached Deadlock’s arm, he held up his part of a familiar script—the one where Deadlock made suggestive commentary while trying to flaunt his frame during Ratchet’s repairs, and Ratchet rolled his optics and scoffed off Deadlock’s advances. Ratchet could never decide whether Deadlock did this when he was feeling particularly nice, or when he was feeling particularly mean. Deadlock took perverse delight in making Ratchet squirm. 

And Ratchet _did_ squirm. Because Drift was beautiful in a way that neither drugs nor damage nor a Decepticon rebuild could erase. While Ratchet was as professional as ever in his demeanor, Drift was the rare occurrence where it took _effort_. 

Every time he repaired Deadlock, Ratchet dreamed afterwards of what might have been in different circumstances. His favourite was the one where the Functionist Council had assigned Drift to an orderly’s job in the Deltaran Medical Facility, and the two of them… 

Ratchet bit his lip. 

He could _not_ entertain that fantasy while he was fixing the real thing. 

He was already in plenty enough trouble as it was. 


	2. Bend Backwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dratchlock thirst is real! Thank you everyone for your kind comments and indulgence of my three cakes. I hope this one satisfies.
> 
> #

Chapter Two: Bend Backwards

“Make a fist.” 

Deadlock complied, and Ratchet tried not to think about the Decepticon Empire strengthening its grip on Cybertron. This was Drift, and Drift’s grip, nothing more. Drift’s grasp looked strong and steady, just the way it was supposed to. 

Ratchet nodded, satisfied with his repair. “I think you’re about good to go.” 

“For the last time,” Deadlock said. “Unless it’s life or death.” 

“ _Don’t_ you take that as an invitation to get yourself shot to slag so you can come back and see me next week.” 

“Sure.” Deadlock slid off the slab, standing just a little too close to Ratchet. “So, you’re firing me as a patient, right?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t put it _that_ way,” Ratchet spluttered. “It’s just the political…” 

“Unless it’s life or death.” Deadlock pressed his finger into the center of Ratchet’s chest. “Right?” 

Something in Deadlock’s optics gave Ratchet pause. A moment later, the Chief Medical Officer managed to nod. His voxcoder still felt locked up. 

“Say it.” 

“Unless it’s life or death.” Ratchet fidgeted, feeling a bit uncomfortable. 

“But you can do all kinds of things when it’s life or death.” Deadlock walked his fingers up to Ratchet’s throat. “Break the usual rules for a crisis.” 

Ratchet had no idea what Deadlock was building towards, but his demeanor was either irritating or else frightening, and Ratchet would far rather be annoyed than scared. “Is this going somewhere?” Ratchet interrupted. “I have paperwork.” 

“Yeah, it’s going somewhere.” Deadlock wrapped his arm around Ratchet’s neck and took a half-step closer. That put his leading foot in between Ratchet’s feet and his nose almost touching Ratchet’s. 

“What are you…” Ratchet began. 

Deadlock cut him off. “I’m not your patient.” He winked. “So this is fine.” 

Then he kissed Ratchet full on the lips. 

Ratchet swore he heard his brain reset. The world violently ceased to make sense. 

Ratchet felt his lips move against Deadlock’s and realized that at some point he’d started kissing the Decepticon back. 

Deadlock’s arms slid around Ratchet. Deadlock’s hands pressed into Ratchet’s back in a way that seemed to urge Ratchet to deepen the kiss. Ratchet did, and Deadlock responded enthusiastically, taking Ratchet’s tongue into his mouth and stroking it with his own. 

When the kiss finally broke, the world didn’t fall back into order. Ratchet stared into Deadlock’s optics as the shattered pieces of logic fell all around him. Their noses touched. 

“What’s happening?” Ratchet whispered. 

Deadlock moved his lips to Ratchet’s left audial. “Don’t you remember what you say to me every time I try to thank you?” His hands slid over Ratchet’s sides and cupped the curved edges of Ratchet’s windshield. He spoke in a growly imitation of Ratchet’s voice. “That’s not appropriate because _you’re my patient_.” 

“It isn’t,” Ratchet insisted, trying not to pant. His intakes couldn’t drink in air fast enough. Deadlock’s thumbs stroked Ratchet’s headlights. Ratchet gave in, opened his mouth, and pulled in short, quick breaths. 

Deadlock continued in a soft, breathy voice, “So now I’m not your patient. Hmmm?” This was Deadlock’s seduction voice and it was far too over-the-top for Ratchet to take seriously. It jarred Ratchet out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. Deadlock was toying with him again. 

“Cut the crap, Drift, you sound like you’re in a porno.” 

“Fine.” Deadlock pulled his hands away and yes, Ratchet missed his touch. Deadlock gritted his teeth and shoved his nose right up against Ratchet’s. “You have twenty minutes to get on with it before we have your security staff as an audience.” 

Ratchet felt completely befuddled. “Get on with…” 

Deadlock’s hand fumbling for the latch on Ratchet’s spike panel left no doubt as to what Deadlock meant. 

“Are you saying you were serious all this time,” Ratchet said weakly, wondering if Deadlock would figure out how to pop his panel open. Part of him was afraid he would. 

Part of him hoped he would. 

“I dunno.” Deadlock threw back his head and laughed. Mania flickered in the edges of his optics. “You gave me a real good lecture on medical ethics the first time. So I figured you’d keep turning me down. Or at least that you were supposed to, no matter how much you wanted my chassis. So I did my best to seduce you so I could prove to myself that you were just as big a piece of slag as all the rest of us, and it didn’t work, and now…” He gazed at Ratchet with hooded optics. “Now you get your reward. You get to have me whatever way you like and you don’t have to feel guilty tomorrow.” 

Ratchet probably looked like a fool, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work properly until he wrapped his mind around one crucial concept. “You’re the one who keeps bringing this up…is that becase you want to…?” 

“Less talking, more fragging,” Deadlock growled. He butted against Ratchet as though trying to push him down onto the examination slab. 

Ratchet tried to shove him back. Tried, because a very large part of him didn’t want to hold back. Deadlock didn’t move away but he did hold still, watching Ratchet intently. 

“Not here,” Ratchet panted. 

“Not a lot of time, doc…” Deadlock warned. 

“Yes, we will.” Ratchet fumbled in subspace and pulled out his master access keycard. “Turn left out the door, third corridor on the right, last suite in the corridor. Does that route take you anywhere where the security cams are still active?” He pressed the card into Deadlock’s hands. 

“Er…no?” Deadlock stared at the card, clearly befuddled. 

“Good. You go down there and wait for me.” 

“What are you going to do?” 

“Call security, tell them everything’s quiet here, I’m heading to recharge and don’t disturb me unless it’s an emergency.” 

“Don’t…disturb.” Deadlock’s grin grew wicked as he leaned closer and whispered, “Because that’s _my_ job.” 

“I have to go if there’s an emergency,” Ratchet reminded him. Then he sighed and admitted, “otherwise, you can keep me up all night if you want to.” 

“If _I_ want to.” Deadlock looked smug. “Oh, you’ll want me to, all right.” 

Deadlock sauntered out of the room with a swing in his aft that Ratchet was certain had been added for his benefit. Really, it was enough to make Ratchet want to chase after him, maybe even catch him before they reached Ratchet’s hab. But Ratchet didn’t really want a quickie in the hallway any more than he’d wanted one here in the exam room. 

If he was going to do this, he was going to do it properly. And that meant giving Deadlock time to talk and explain himself… 

_No, that means giving myself time to savour it._

Ratchet immediately felt ashamed of himself. He’d offered his card to Deadlock with the intent to buy himself time—somewhere private where they could have a conversation. 

Of course, he’d just maneuvered himself into a position of being alone with one of the top five worst Decepticons. 

Worse, he was becoming increasingly turned on at the thought. 

This wasn’t a good time for self-indulgent fantasies. He was supposed to be thinking about Drift, about the kid’s formative years and about how Ratchet was supposed to be an authority figure, someone in an ideal position to take advantage. Instead he was thinking about all those centuries where he’d held back, where he’d done the professional thing and not the desirable thing, and all of a sudden here was Deadlock right up against him asking for a frag. 

_You fired me…I’m not your patient any more._

Oh, he was going to do this, all right, so long as Deadlock was willing. In fact, he was going to lie to security and tell them that everything was perfectly normal, except that he was very tired and going to his hab for a nice long recharge, and he wasn’t to be disturbed except in cases of extreme urgence. Then he was going to go to his hab and…Well. 

If Deadlock made good on even half of his teasing, then Ratchet was going to have to grab naps as he could tomorrow, because he doubted he’d be getting a full recharge tonight. 

# 

Twenty-five minutes later, Ratchet had just finished wiping down his tools, eliminating the last of the evidence that he’d just reattached an arm in this room, to say nothing of it being a Decepticon’s arm, when the security team walked in. It took ten more minutes to exchange pleasantries. Ratchet remembered just in time that he should ask about the security anomalies and pretend to care about the answer. He thought he’d managed to look relieved when the security team had told him they’d found nothing of concern. He hoped he’d managed to conceal his frame’s unwanted urge to tremble with excitement. It had felt like forever until the security team bid him goodnight. 

Now Ratchet walked down the hall as normally as he could. It was very, very hard. 

Part of him wanted to run down the hall to make sure Deadlock hadn’t just taken off with the Chief Medical Officer’s access pass – a nice prize for a Decepticon operative, at least until the codes were changed. That would put Ratchet in an awkward spot, trying to explain where his pass had gone. 

Another part of him wanted to amble so slowly that he’d draw the suspicions of security, just to buy himself time to think. 

Time he wouldn’t use, because a third part of him wanted to pop on the sirens and drive to his hab at top speed to see whether Deadlock was really waiting for him with a very warm welcome. 

Ratchet supposed these conflicting factors cancelled each other out, because his route from his office to his hab seemed to take the same amount of time as always. 

He stopped in front of his door and took a deep breath. Moment of truth. 

He rapped twice to be let in, hoping that the security team didn’t have the cameras up and running in this hall yet and weren’t wondering why Ratchet was knocking to be let in to his own hab. 

The door swished open on a darkened chamber. 

Ratchet drew a deep breath, took a leap of faith, and stepped inside. 

The door shut. Ratchet heard it lock. 

Then Deadlock took hold of him from behind. 

Not roughly. A firm hand on his shoulder, steering him; another around his waist, pulling his aft against Deadlock’s hips. “And here you are,” Deadlock purred in Ratchet’s audio. 

“Let’s hope there’s no emergencies,” Ratchet murmured back. “It would be nice to be uninterrupted until morning.” 

Deadlock suddenly grew still. “What happens in the morning?” 

“That depends on if someone is _smart_ and lets me pass him off as a commissioned courier making a delivery for me, or _dumb_ and leaves evidence that there was a Decepticon here.” 

“Ohhh,” Deadlock murmured. His hands slid over Ratchet’s hips in a way that suggested he approved of this plan. “I think I’ll go with _smart_.” 

Ratchet knew the script. A snarky reply was out of his lips before he could think better of it. “That’s a first.” 

Deadlock didn’t seem bothered. “Tonight’s a night to try new things.” 

Ratchet couldn’t take any more of Deadlock’s nonchalant attitude. He pulled away from Deadlock’s hands; then he turned, reached up and took hold of Deadlock’s chin, forcing the mech to meet his gaze. “Deadlock. Are you serious about this?” 

“Do I look serious?” Deadlock slid his index finger between Ratchet’s lips. “Do I _feel_ serious?”   
Ratchet closed his lips on the finger, dimmed his optics…then thought better of a complete surrender. Ratchet trailed the fingers of his right hand over Deadlock’s shoulder and down his upper arm, heading for the diagnostic ports under the armour of Deadlock’s right forearm. Meanwhile, Ratchet cast his left hand in the role of _distraction_. He set it wandering down Deadlock’s chest, tracing the seams at his waist, following the smooth curve of his aft… 

Maybe he shouldn’t be doing this, but the distraction was working and, in all honesty, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t wanted to touch those streamlined curves for a long time. This might be his only chance to enjoy a touch before he had to do the responsible thing. 

“Like what you see?” Deadlock asked, his voice low and rough. 

Ratchet ran his tongue down the side of Deadlock’s finger and swore he saw the Con’s faceplates heat. 

Meanwhile, Ratchet found the panel he was looking for, dug the tips of the fingers on his right hand into the seam, and popped the latch. 

“What…” Deadlock tensed, jerking his finger out of Ratchet’s mouth. He looked ready to jump, but it was too late. Ratchet had a diagnostic cable in his hand, and he’d just shoved the jack into one of Drift’s diagnostic ports. 

Ratchet stilled his left hand, keeping it firmly in the small of Deadlock’s back to hold the Decepticon close. “Relax, it’s just a diagnostic linkup.” 

“You had better tell me this is a kink thing,” Deadlock growled in Ratchet’s audio. “Because if you’re still working, I’m going to tie your hands together and cuff you to the bed and _make_ you have a good time.” 

Now that his diagnostic jack was firmly inserted in Deadlock’s arm, Ratchet let the cable swing loose from his forearm as he raised his right hand to stroke Deadlock’s cheek guard. “So how turned on are you right now, hm?” 

Deadlock’s optics sparked surprise, but he grinned and leaned closer. “Running hot and raring to go.” He kept the arm with the jack in his diagnostic port resting against Ratchet’s chest, but Ratchet felt the hand on Deadlock’s other arm making its way over his hip, on its way to grope Ratchet’s aft. 

Part of him wanted to just shut up and let that groping happen. 

In truth, he could have spoken up sooner that he did. It was his choice to wait and enjoy a few pats before he lifted his lips to Deadlock’s cheek guard and whispered, “Like slag you are, you liar.” 

Deadlock froze. 


	3. A Sliver To Call Mine

Ratchet grabbed the Con’s collar fairing and hauled down until he and Deadlock were optic-to-optic and he knew he had the speedster’s complete attention. Deadlock looked shocked that Ratchet was strong enough to pull him off balance. Ratchet felt a pleasurable sense of satisfaction. Medics were stronger than they looked. 

Maybe he shouldn’t be throwing his weight around with one of the five worst Decepticons excluding Megatron, but Ratchet had committed to his decision. If he didn’t throw his weight around, Deadlock would streamroll right over him. The _only_ chance he had to find out what the Con was really planning—and potentially get out if he didn’t like the sound of it—was to push whatever authority he could muster, as far as it would go. 

Deadlock stammered, “I…what? What are you…” 

“Coming on to me all night, coming to my quarters, groping my aft…and your system temperature is _down_. No pheromones in your vents. No pressure in your spike. No lubricant in your valve. Fans on idle. The _only_ signs of anything even approximating arousal are a slightly increased rpm and the tension in your frame, _both_ of which could be easily explained by your presence in _enemy territory_ where you know you’ll be shot at on sight by any Autobot who isn’t me.” 

Deadlock’s taunting smile was nowhere to be found. It had been well and truly wiped off his face by Ratchet’s caustic words. Deadlock shrank back, away from him. 

The Decepticon warrior dwindled in front of Ratchet’s optics until all that was left was the gutter kid from the Dead End, staring up at Ratchet from a martial helm that looked as though he’d stolen it from someone else. 

“So _you_ tell _me_ why you’re pretending you want to interface,” Ratchet growled. 

“Because I _do_ ,” Deadlock retorted, as though he’d found at least some of his stubbornness. His spinal strut straightened and he stood taller. “Never mind that biological nonsense. If you’re not my doctor any more then it’s past time for you to frag me straight through that berth of yours.” 

“And what do you get out of that?” 

Deadlock grabbed Ratchet’s collar fairing, and Ratchet realized that the Decepticon had just thrown his own trick back on him. Deadlock didn’t have enough body mass to squat and haul Ratchet anywhere. Instead, he shoved Ratchet off balance and then slid around Ratchet’s side, taking care not to tangle up the diagnostic cable hanging between them as he took hold of Ratchet’s hips from behind. Deadlock pressed his chest against Ratchet’s back, his breath hot on Ratchet’s audio. “Then I get you out of my system.” 

“What?” Ratchet suddenly found it very hard to concentrate. 

Deadlock’s hands weren’t on his hips any more. They’d moved down to his thighs. His inner thighs. His… Ratchet staggered, caught himself in time. He couldn’t open his legs much further or he’d lose his balance. But they still weren’t open far enough to move Drift’s fingers another inch or so up, where they’d brush over the panels that… 

“And look what you get.” Deadlock’s voice was deceptively sweet. 

Ratchet tried to keep his breathing steady and listen to what Deadlock was saying. Truth be told, he didn’t want to be talking. Truth be told, he really _did_ want to frag Deadlock through his berth. Or be fragged _by_ him. Ratchet realized he wasn’t picky. 

“You get to have a good time,” Deadlock purred. “So why don’t you _shut up_?” 

“Or what?” Ratchet snapped. 

Deadlock’s hands stilled. “You have really got a lot of nerve,” he snarled, and the ice in his tone sent a shiver up Ratchet’s spinal strut, but Ratchet reminded himself that Decepticons didn’t respect people who couldn’t put them in their place. And the only reason Ratchet believed that he could make Deadlock fall in line was… 

“Come off it, Drift, if you’d wanted to hurt me, you’d have done it long ago.” Ratchet looked back over his shoulder. “If you’d wanted to frag me, you probably could have done that too.” 

“You said no,” Deadlock countered. “You either said no, or you _would have_ if I’d asked, every night until tonight.” Deadlock rested the tip of his index finger under Ratchet’s chin and curled it. 

On its own, one finger was not enough for Deadlock to lift Ratchet’s chin. Ratchet should have made the kid use his whole hand to get a good grip and force his head upwards. Unfortunately, Ratchet realized this as he was in the act of raising his chin in an instinctive response to Deadlock. 

Primus, but he was playing with fire. Sassing Deadlock when all the while, the thing he wanted most was precisely what the Decepticon was offering. 

“This is for _you_ ,” Deadlock murmured. His optics smouldering. “This is everything you’ve wanted all along, and now you can have it and _still_ keep your precious moral code. So tell me what’s your fantasy.” He took the diagnostic cable in between his thumb and index finger and slowly rolled it back and forth. 

The cable itself had no feeling in it. Ratchet’s immediate physical response was entirely due to the suggestiveness of Drift’s action and not about any direct physical stimulation. 

Distantly, Ratchet wondered if Deadlock’s experience might be something like that. No obvious physical arousal, but some kind of gratification on an emotional level? 

Drift made a “tch!” sound of impatience. Ratchet realized he’d been too distracted by his own desires and his desperate attempt to understand Deadlock’s game. 

“Let me make this easy for you, doc,” Deadlock purred. “What panel do you want me to open? Valve, or spike?” 

“I want you…” Ratchet was having trouble getting enough air into his intakes. “I want you to tell me…what you’re getting out of this.” 

“Are you sure?” Deadlock’s hand slid back between Ratchet’s thighs. “There’s a quiver in your voice, doc.” 

Deadlock’s fingers massaged gently, stimulating both Ratchet’s spike and anterior node, albeit through their plating. Ratchet badly wanted Deadlock to pick one and open it. He waited, wondering which one Deadlock would choose. If he replied now, he’d never find out. 

He just wanted to know which one Deadlock would pick before he did the responsible thing. 

Deadlock chuckled. Ratchet realized that the Decepticon had taken his silence as an answer. 

Deadlock guided Ratchet’s hand against his own valve panel. “Just relax and let this happen.” Deadlock positioned Ratchet’s index finger, then pressed down on it. Under Ratchet’s touch, Deadlock’s valve panel sprung open. 

Any second. Any second now and he’d break and tell Deadlock to touch him, kiss him, lick him, take him, _please._

Ratchet furled his hands into fists and blurted, “Tell…me…why.” 

Deadlock froze. Swore. Pulled his hands away, leaving Ratchet’s body crying with the loss. 

Ratchet shoved his scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. “You aren’t coming here just for repairs. You could get that at a Decepticon hospital. You’re here for _me_ , but you’re not aroused, and you say you’re here to thank me, but I never asked you to.” 

“But you want me.” The way Deadlock said it, it sounded like an accusation. 

“And that’s my problem to deal with, just as it’s always been, and I’d be dealing with it now too if you weren’t coming on so hard to me.” Ratchet glowered at him. “So what’s your game, Con? What makes me worth your time?” There were infinite possibilities when Ratchet remembered he was dealing with a ranking Decepticon. “What do you want to see here in my quarters? What do you want to steal? What do you want to coax me to tell you? _What are you seducing me for?_ ” 

All of a sudden, Deadlock’s face crumpled into an expression of grief and horror. Ratchet had not thought the battle-hardened Decepticon would be capable of such a look. With light threatening to stream from the corners of his optics, Deadlock whispered, “Is _that_ what you think of me? That I came here to _spy_ …or to _rob_ you?” 

“You picked a good target,” Ratchet said, his voice low. “You knew I wouldn’t hurt you. Wouldn’t even report you to Prowl. Pit, you even tried to make it nice for me. Give me a good frag, a sweet memory. What would you have done when I went to sleep, _Deadlock_?” Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Or did you already get what you want, and you were getting to frag me to buy my silence and then leave? But I threw a wrench into your plan when I gave you my card, and you had no way to refuse that wouldn’t make me suspicious.” 

Deadlock’s optics flowed over. He shook his head in sharp negation, but didn’t speak. 

Ratchet stepped closer and put his hand under Deadlock’s chin. He refused to be arrogant about dominance, the way Deadlock had been to him. He stroked Deadlock’s throat and gently guided him to tip his head back and look up. “Talk to me, Drift,” Ratchet whispered. Softly. Tenderly. An undeniable command nonetheless. 

Deadlock broke. “I want to get you to tell me you like me.” 

The words didn’t seem to make sense. Ratchet considered himself a pretty smart mechanism, but somehow he couldn’t grasp the enormity of what Deadlock was saying. “To say I like you,” Ratchet repeated stupidly. 

As though Ratchet could _like_ the bloody killer called Deadlock. 

_…as though I could like that gutter kid in the Dead End in any possible way other than that of the pity and charity I extended to everyone in Rodion._

Except that he _did_ , and while all those years he’d thought it had been just an idle sexual fantasy, a little perverse, perhaps, but it didn’t count when of course he’d never really act on it, all of a sudden Ratchet realized that his concern for Drift—Deadlock—was not the same as the concern he showed to everyone else, and it was about far more than interfacing. 

Just as Ratchet realized he’d gotten in too deep, Deadlock roughly scrubbed the corners of his optics with the backs of his hands. The light streams stopped. Ratchet saw a dent in the corner of Deadlock’s right optic from scouring too hard. 

“Well, I guess I’ve got my answer,” Deadlock muttered. “Dumbaft. Now what are we supposed to do stuck in a room together until morning?” He kicked at the floor. “You don’t even have to like me to frag me.” 

“You know I don’t make a habit of fragging people who don’t enjoy it.” 

“Never said I wouldn’t enjoy it.” He tugged on the cable still embedded in his arm. “Just not the way this indicates.” 

“You want something else,” Ratchet whispered. He felt stunned when he guessed what it might be. “You want to be close to me, don’t you?” 

“I’ll pay,” Deadlock blurted. “If you don’t want my frame, I’ve got shanix…” 

“You could try asking nicely,” Ratchet said sarcastically. 

Epiphany hit Ratchet like a whiplash. 

Deadlock was just gawking at him, which told him he was right. 

“No, you couldn’t,” Ratchet whispered. “Asking nicely would get you laughed at in the Dead End…or slapped in the face. I’m guessing it would get you worse in the Decepticons.” 

Deadlock pressed his lips into a line and said nothing. 

“If I told you it would get you somewhere with me, would you do it?” 

“What?” Drift said with a scoff. “Like _please hug me_ or some scrap like that?” 

Ratchet sat down on the edge of his berth and patted the space beside him, watching Deadlock all the while. 

Deadlock sighed, hanging his head and scratching the back of his neck. “ _Fine_. I’ll play your stupid game. Can I recharge in your berth tonight?” 

“Yes, you can.” 

Deadlock watched him a second longer before he cautiously sat next to Ratchet on the berth. 

Primus, but this was going to be hard. He was going to have the kid laying against him all night long, and he’d have to keep his hands to himself? Ratchet knew he’d have to sleep on the floor if he couldn’t trust himself to behave. 

Deadlock leaned against Ratchet’s side. He felt warm. Ratchet’s fans clicked on, and Ratchet’s face flushed. 

That little bit of contact and he was already running hot? 

He was in _trouble_.


End file.
